


she'd put her love down, soft and sweet

by casualbird



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Femdom, Fisting, Fluff and Smut, Hand & Finger Kink, Kink Meme, Multiple Orgasms, No Spoilers, Pet Names, Praise Kink, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:14:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23936662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualbird/pseuds/casualbird
Summary: "Mercie," he mumbles, in that strangled, earnest tone she loves, and can't even stop to preen at the smile it earns him. "Your hands, I--I can't, they're so... I want them, Mercie, I can't help it."Mercedes takes care of her sweet boy when he needs it.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Mercedes von Martritz
Comments: 13
Kudos: 98





	she'd put her love down, soft and sweet

He's heard her call them seamstress hands, healer's hands, wound-suturing hands. Delicate, with the same smooth skin, the same plumpness as the rest of her. Deft, most importantly, and gentle. She uses them lightly, just flitting in to adjust a lock of hair, to pick a fuzzball off of one's shirtfront. To cup around an unshaven cheek, a callused hand, a shivering shoulder-blade.

Sylvain's got no idea if he's meant to think of them so much, and then figures there's no point in caring. Shouldn't it be a point of pride, that Mercedes' body is the one he never tires of? Any time he's spent dwelling on other ladies, other gentlemen, himself, scarred and bad-blooded... it's nothing next to the field of study he could make of her. That he tries to, in their bed, their quiet evenings, their any stolen snatch of half-privacy.

On his knees, one night, he sucks her fingers before her cock. And then--with the way she croons to him, the way her almond fingertips stroke his slick lips, his tongue--instead of it.

"Sweet boy," she murmurs, and the words fall on Sylvain's shoulders like a favorite jacket, all the more comforting for their pattern of wear. "Do you like my fingers?"

He hums desperate approval, swallows her three fingers to the last knuckle--but it's not the whole answer, and Mercedes has always made a point of wringing all the truth from him.

So--he dips back, lets fingernails skim his tongue on their way out, can't help but squirm whimpering at the loss.

"Mercie," he mumbles, in that strangled, earnest tone she loves, and can't even stop to preen at the smile it earns him. "Your hands, I--I can't, they're so... I want them, Mercie, I can't help it."

She tips up his chin on those fingers, and if they're going cold in the dry air... neither of them pay it any mind. "How do you mean?"

A shiver, then, a great wracking thing. "Inside. Inside, a-all the way."

Her eyebrows raise, but only coyly, sweetly. A smile melts across her face like glaze on oven-warm cake, easy. "I think I see what you mean, sweetheart," she coos, stroking slick fingers up his jawline, into soft clean hair. "Think I see how badly you need it, too... yes, Sylvie, we can work up to it!"

She keeps her promise, because she always keeps her promises. In turn, Sylvain endeavors more than usual to be sparklingly, dazzlingly good. He carries packages for her, organizes her embroidery thread, her great caches of healing herbs, teas. It's nothing she's asked of him, just... he thinks of her hands, hovering over her sewing box, tracing the eyes of each needle to find one just the perfect size. He trembles with it.

Goes to his knees for her, whenever he's granted even a sliver of a chance. She kisses his forehead, the nape of his neck, his thighs as she spreads them, fingernails resting crescents in his flesh. Gives him her fingers--only one the first night, though he's taken rather more--and slowly.

There's a perfumed oil she uses, light and floral in some way Sylvain can't quite describe. He hisses with her delicate cruelty when the scent wafts off her pulse points the next day, when they've things to do.

He loves her, and he needs her, and he tells her so. Rasps it in the mornings, into her ear; sings it in ballads as he tidies up their room. Winces it, through fat inexorable tears, when she gathers him close, plies him with her sweet words, her skin.

Nothing he can say will make the process any faster.

It has to be a moon or more, all told, before Mercedes fucks him open, spills in him, doesn't stop. Before her palms pet softly over the contours of his body, the points of his vertebrae, hipbones, before she kisses the dimples of his back and murmurs "more?"

Sylvain can barely hold himself up with how dearly he wants it, can hardly force the tangle of it out of his mouth. Mercedes laughs, too kindly, and Sylvain shivers all over again at the brush of her lips, her breath at the small of his back.

"Be patient for me, just a minute now," she says, and her drawing-back is made tolerable by her soft humming, the trailing ends of short hair across his skin. Sylvain shifts his weight on his forearms, huffs, listens for the cork popping from her little bottle.

She could make him wait longer. She could, and he would adore it, would whine and weep and beg her to.

She doesn't--just lays her palm around the tight curve of a thigh, traces a dripping fingertip where he's still slack.

A little kiss, then, and it's in, stroking softly. Sylvain grits his teeth, makes a weak sound, doesn't spend. She hasn't told him that he could. She hasn't told him he couldn't, either, but that's neither here nor there. He doesn't. Not even when she whispers to him, pets him from the inside, makes him drip.

"How is it?" Her voice is soft, as light as the sheer chemises he bought for her last birthday, and Sylvain is certain she knows the answer.

Tells her anyway, arches his back into it. "More, Mercie."

He can hear her little huff, her little smirk. "Mind your manners."

"Please, Mercie...!"

The purest laughter falls out of her, and Sylvain--buries his face in folded forearms. Grits teeth. Doesn't come.

A second finger is already testing him by the time she leans down again, whispers warm "aren't you a dear?"

For her, he is. He tells her so.

"I know, sweetie, I'll take care of you, don't you worry."

She does, with careful, practiced hands. Sylvain can't help but think of her perfect nails, lacquered spring pink, whimpers at the though of them gliding over his insides. The little writer's bump on her middle finger, he swears he can feel it--and then she's to the last knuckle on her ring finger and he can't think of anything any longer.

"Good boy," she soothes him, in rhythm with her palm rubbing circles on his flank. "Another? You've been so well-behaved, I could take you all the way if you like."

Sylvain whimpers, wails, makes a terrible mess of the bedclothes. Braces a moment--Mercedes' scoldings are short, not unkind, but so wonderfully sharp.

She doesn't, though, just kisses his backside, stills her fingers in him. Gives him a moment, lets his panting fall back into sync with her measured breath.

"Was it good?"

There are no words in Sylvain's mouth, no tension in his tongue, his jaw to speak them even if there were. He does his best to answer her anyway, a long sweet wheedling sound that earns him another laugh, another kiss.

"That's my sweet boy." Mercedes pauses again, until he's nearly stopped quivering. "Are you finished, dear? We could keep going, I think you've more than earned--"

"Please, pleasepleaseplease Mercie don't stop." Sylvain's voice shakes and slurs, his hips pressing back to make his point, to get her in him even the slightest bit deeper.

She doesn't stop. Draws out for a second, yes, and it makes him wince, but it's only for a little more slick. Only long enough to warm it on her skin, and then she's back, speaking softly, slipping in.

"There's a game to be had there, I think. What should your punishment be, dearest, when you interrupt me? It's terribly rude."

Sylvain only grumbles, slumps into the mattress.

"Of course not now, little love. But it's a fun thought, don't you think?" That laugh again, and as quiet as it is, it rings in him--such a soft, sophisticated thing, the kind of sound one hears in a tea garden, hidden behind a fan or--or manicured, lace-gloved fingers...!

"More," he pleads, sounding winded. Mercedes gives it to him--he bears down, just slightly, to take in her little finger.

She pets him, croons. "That's four, Sylvie. Almost there!"

Sylvain isn't quite certain if it's the easy stretch, the lilt of her voice, the softness of her hand on his hip, but he keens, spent cock twitching. "Please," he whines, "please hurry, Mercie."

"Poor thing, needing me so badly." Her fingers twist, then, and Sylvain makes a noise that he'd be mortified, petrified if anyone else on earth ever heard. For Mercedes, though, the surrender of it is perfect. "Yes," she says, gentle, "I know, you've waited so long for this! It's alright, sweetheart. I can't go too quickly or I'll hurt you, but I promise I won't make you wait. Okay?"

Tears threaten at Sylvain's lids--he gasps, lets them fall without protest. "I-it's okay."

"That's my good boy," she murmurs, and it goes through him like the first taste of her merengues, like one of her goodnight kisses to his brow. He trembles.

She gentles him through the rest of the stretch, humming little love songs, making a sweet sun-shower of her praise. Stroking his thigh, always, a soft counterpoint, grounding. Sylvain cries for her, arches his back so far it aches, knows he'll be alright. She'll kiss his cheeks dry afterward, rub the strain out of his back. She'll take care of him.

Always does, and always so tenderly, sweetly, with such care. The last leg of the stretching is slower, her languid movements gathering precision as she circles the pad of her thumb at Sylvain's dripping entrance, as she whispers to him. "Alright, precious, Sylvie, sweet thing," she murmurs, as measured and sure as an incantation. "Alright, my darling, are you ready?"

Sylvain has been ready since the first time Mercedes' fingers brushed the nape of his neck, spilled magic into a bruise, dabbed his eyes on a lacy handkerchief. There's no hope of saying so now, though, when it's all he can do to breathe, to take in air around his delighted, wrecked little sobs.

Still, his Mercie needs to hear it from him.

"Oh," he manages, muffled. "Oh, Mercie please, please--!"

The sleekness of her oiled skin on his, the last dregs of burning stretch--it's all too much, but the fullness of him, it's... he doesn't know. Perfect?

The way she praises him is better. Kisses every freckle, every little patch of skin she can reach, cooing in between, her free hand petting him soft... "Dearest," she calls him, "wonderful, so good, such a good boy."

"Good boy," over and over, until he's shaken half apart, until his hips twitch and shiver with the need for her to move. He bites out another plea, and though it's barely made of words she understands it, hums, presses slowly, softly further in.

"That's it," she whispers, those plush lips falling on his lathered skin once more, "that's right." Sylvain can scarcely hear her, over his own splintered cries. Still, he understands. He knows.

He tries to tell her, and to remind her that he loves her, that he is so consumed, so desperately thankful. She only tells him once more that she knows.

Twists her wrist, then, just a little, just a slight few slow degrees, and all of this has been too much, but her knuckles--the soft hills and valleys of them, dragging across that sweet spot... it is the most, Sylvain thinks, he's ever felt.

He's not even certain if he'd ever gotten hard again, but spills anyway, weakly, crying out and clenching at her wrist. Panting, dripping, a mess if ever there's been one, and Mercedes adores him.

"That's perfect, that's lovely, that's just right," she lilts, "Sylvie, did it feel good? Was it what you wanted? I'm proud. Truly, I am."

When there is breath in him again, sound beyond sobbing--he's no idea if he'll ever be able to thank her enough.

**Author's Note:**

> so! wow! the first thing i saw when i woke up today was this kink meme prompt, and i just knew i had to do it! because it's precious, and also just like. to prove i could. and i can! i hope you liked it! title is from hozier's 'work song,' because it would have been ILLEGAL not to quote hozier somewhere in this fic.
> 
> (i'm also pretty proud that it's the First fill on the three houses kink meme, which you can find [here!)](https://fe3hkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/318.html)
> 
> i'd appreciate it very much if you'd let me know what you thought, and if you feel inclined, come hang out with me on [twitter!!](https://twitter.com/bird_scribbles)


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